This is an e-mail I sent to a friend.
So, I was about to head down to the corner store to get beer (I'm nurturing the drunken Viking plunderer-cum-seeding-of-the-Celts portion of my genetic heritage today)...
My retard cats have decided that since they now have an entrance directly to the street, that they are Great White Hunters and that the outside world must be explored and pillaged. Their 'pillaging' consists of me putting them on leashes (gawd, that's so pathetic, but to assuage my 'cat lady' fears, I tell myself that lots of people in New York put their cats on leashes) so that when they decide to tear off as fast as their fat asses can move them, I'll have a way to pull them back in.
When they saw me headed for the front door, they glued themselves to my ankles, so I stuck the leashes on 'em and opened the door. They were about to go ripping down the stairs until they noticed that a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom) and her two munchkins were down on the sidewalk. Jacob, my incredibly ancient scrawny runt who rules the herd, walked right out (he doesn't get a leash because he is well-trained and won't take off and is too damned old to do so anyway) to investigate. Natasha, the Maine Coon slut who bares her belly at anybody who so much as looks at her, strolled out and began lolling at the top of the steps so that she could listen to all of the "ooh, pretty gatos!" praise coming from the street. Jack, the lardass Siamese (seriously, he's an ox; he makes the dog downstairs look like a malnourished sewer rat in comparison) was immediately crippled by fear of the little boy standing there and crouched by the door with his pupils blown up to the size of frisbees.
To make an already long story short, Robbie (the little boy, who is two-going-on-three) was not only totally enamored of the critters, but decided to follow me back into the house when I put the "gatos" back inside because he wanted to stay with the crazy cat lady. The little girl (seven months old) showed me her two teeth in a giddy series of happy "ooh, new lady to look at" grins as I steered her older brother by holding onto the top of his head and turning him in the direction of the door.
I have a tendency to steer little kids like that. I'm not sure you're actually supposed to do that to them, but they always seem to get a kick out of it and their parents never seem to get pissed, so I just keep doing it. Of course, it's probably the fact that I grab 'em by the tops of their heads and start moving them around like weebles that makes them then follow me wherever I go. Anyway, little Robbie threw a classic writhing, squalling temper tantrum when his mom came up and brought him back downstairs so that I could go get my beer to support my dissipated wino lifestyle. Then he followed me to my mailbox and wanted to come inside again. I knew it was true love. I finally got him to go with his mom by promising that he could come back to see the gatos tomorrow but that they (the cats, not the smidgets) had to go to bed now (which, aside from eating and shitting, is pretty much all they do anyway [again, the cats, not the kids, although that's pretty much what kids do, too, aside from enamoring themselves of strange neighbor ladies]), telling him that I was leaving and then starting to walk down the street.
[Editor's note: Holy crap, can I produce run-on sentences, or what?]
When I came back from the store, the mom and her kids had gotten as far as the corner. I waved at the little boy and said, "Bye, Robbie!" He had already forgotten who I was and stood there completely baffled as to how I knew his name. If I hadn't felt like the now-scary "lady who stays home all day and only goes out to get booze", I'd probably have stood there laughing my ass off, but I figured that I should get myself and my brown paper bag back home before I scarred the poor kid with premature exposure to Beck's.
Yeah, I leave a real lasting impression. He just wants me for my cats. Story of my life.